


Walking back into the chains

by Ryxl



Series: Tariverse [7]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Mild Language, he knew what he was getting into, we haven't seen the last of her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 02:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryxl/pseuds/Ryxl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The treaty has been signed, the preparations made with considerable haste before word spreads far enough for any objections to materialize into problems. All that's left is to take the plunge - and start learning how to live with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turnabout is fair play

"I still don't see why you're so insistent on this visit," Varian calls sulkily as Jaina's zeppelin moors at the cliff out of which Grommash Hold was carved.

"I visited Stormwind, my lord," I call back from the cliff.

One rough hand swipes at his sweaty forehead. "I've _been_ in Orgrimmar."

I stand to the side as Jaina's men begin the organized chaos of unloading, watching with amusement as my husband-to-be picks his way through to join me on the cliff. I lead him to the round stone building that houses the spiraling wooden steps, and we begin making our way down into the cool interior.

"No," I say once Jaina's men are out of earshot. " _Lo'gosh_ was in Orgrimmar. As a slave. _Varian_ has never been in the city, and certainly not as the guest of the Warchief." Out of the corner of my eye, I see his surprise. "You're not the only one who can right wrongs, my lord."

He is silent as we descend into the Hold proper and begin navigating the hallways, eight Kor'kron Elites and Golthak falling in behind us. The Elites arrange themselves at the door of the suite in which Varian is to be housed during his visit, but Golthak follows us inside. Varian ignores him, as he did in Dalaran, in favor of looking around.

"I do appreciate the distinction," the king of Stormwind says after a moment, staring hard at a trollish wall decoration. "I also appreciate the discretion. You could be rubbing any number of things in my face, but you're not."

I can see that he's fighting his pride, so I make my tone as neutral as his was. "What purpose would it serve if I did?"

A strange, knowing smile crosses his face and is gone. "What purpose indeed. Regardless, my lady, I thank you for your kindness and sincerely hope that you will continue to be so patient with me as I re-learn how not to be a brute."

I didn't need the reminder of the slavery I have willingly walked into. A sharp retort springs to my lips, but I swallow it. He did nothing to earn it; if I give it voice, I will be punishing him for his openness. This internal struggle is not lost on him, however, and his eyes narrow slightly.

"Don't, Taretha. I'm not Blackmoore. If I've earned a lashing from your tongue, _don't hold back_. If you don't tell me what I did wrong, I won't know what to change."

The growl in his voice gives me the strength to put ice in mine. "True enough. But you didn't earn it this time." I do my best to ignore the surprise tinged with gratitude on his face. "We will dine with my brother in three hours. There is a bath and a private courtyard in this suite, and your trunk will be here shortly." Stiffly, I curtsy to him. "I will see you at dinner, your Majesty."

He bows reflexively as I turn and leave, Golthak holding the door for me and the Elite who enters with Varian's trunk.

"Good to be back," my faithful shadow says tersely.

I have to agree. "Even if it's only temporary."

 

===============

 

Varian seats himself at the low table in the Warchief's private suite, doing his best to ignore the scowling Mag'har seated across from him. Thrall and I felt it best if the king of Stormwind and the chieftain of the Mag'har were not seated next to each other, so my future husband has me to his left and my brother to his right.

"Thank you for your discretion in this," he says to Thrall. "I have no doubt that this would cause widespread panic if it were publicly known that the king of Stormwind was in Orgrimmar without his guards."

My brother smiles around his tusks. "No more so than the ripples I caused when I discovered you had already been here. I was... _displeased_...when I heard the news."

"I wasn't very happy about it either," Varian says dryly.

A servant sets a roast on the low table and scurries off, and for a minute we are occupied with carving ourselves generous slabs of meat.

"We have much in common," Thrall says slowly.

"How's that, Warchief?"

"We were both made to fight by the other's race for the amusement and profit of those who held us captive. We both engineered our own escapes and reclaimed what was ours by birthright. And, of course, we both care deeply about Taretha."

Varian colors slightly. "There is that."

"You had quite the reputation," my brother continues. "While it has been longer since I was in the arena, I had quite the reputation myself."

Now my future husband grins. "You're wondering if you could take me in a fight."

"Not quite. I'm wondering if _you_ could take _me_."

"Weapons?"

"None, although you may wear armor if you choose."

"Not necessary. When?"

"I'm usually up at dawn, unless you prefer to get it over with."

"No. Dawn is fine."

I hide a smile, knowing that rising with the sun is another thing Varian and Thrall have in common. "Are you two going to need a referee or witness?"

They look at each other, silent questions and answers in their eyes, while Garrosh half-leers.

"I promise to not wound your betrothed past my ability to heal him," Thrall says, amusement making his rumbling voice almost a purr.

"If your brother dies, my lady...well, you know the line of succession better than I do. That's reason enough to keep him alive."

Garrosh scowls. "Hey!"

"Besides, I'm indebted to him for more reasons than one." He turns to Thrall. "Why did you decide to let me have Taretha's hand, anyway? I know one speech couldn't have swayed your opinion of me _that_ much."

Again, my brother grins, but the expression is not pleasant. "Your Majesty, you are laboring under the misconception that _I_ made that choice. Had it been up to me, you would have left disappointed that day."

Varian turns to regard me with astonishment, and I busy myself with a slice of bread.

"Taretha?"

"Whatever happens," Thrall growls, "never forget that _she_ chose to accept your proposal."

"But I made you cry." His voice is so gentle, so concerned, that I don't dare meet his eyes.

"For seven years she blunted Blackmoore's temper with her body, a slave as surely as I was. She cried because she was afraid she was walking back into the chains, sacrificing herself again to keep a dangerous man in check." Thrall doesn't bother trying to hide the warning in his voice.

"Taretha, is this true?"

He sounds...hurt. Afraid. I still can't meet his eyes, but I nod once.

"Am I that bad? I guess I must be, if you...Taretha, I swear to you. I will not be Blackmoore. Please, look at me."

I don't want to, but I can't refuse him this. Slowly, I raise my eyes to his and see...surrender.

"Taretha Foxton of the Frostwolf, Lady of Durnholde, future queen of Stormwind. I swear to you on the souls of King Llane and Tiffin Wrynn that I will never seek to dominate you. I will listen honestly and openly to your advice and criticism. I will never raise my hand against you. I call upon Warchief Thrall and Overlord Garrosh to bear witness to this oath, may they strike me down should I break it."

"Witnessed," Garrosh says with vengeful glee.

"Witnessed," my brother rumbles sternly.

He loves me, I remind myself. I have the power to hurt him, and badly. Even if I feel trapped by his emotions, those same emotions guarantee my freedom. I nod my acceptance, and relief washes over him.

"Tari, why don't you take Wrynn on a proper tour of Orgrimmar after our bout tomorrow?"

Varian looks startled at Thrall's suggestion, but I am grateful for the change of subject. "What say you, my lord?"

"Anything to have the pleasure of your company, my lady," he says, echoes of apology in his eyes. "When should I call on you?"

"Not so fast, human dog," Garrosh growls. "I want a chance to pound your ugly face in, too."

Because I am already looking at my husband-to-be, I can see the rage that flares in his eyes before he closes them, jaw and fists clenched as he fights for control, fights to remain Varian and not succumb to Lo'gosh.

"Leave this table, son of Hellscream," Thall's voice is deadly quiet, and the air crackles around him. "I will send for you when the king of Stormwind and I have concluded our business tomorrow, and you and I will finish what we started in the Ring of Valor before the Lich King's minions so rudely interrupted us."

The Mag'har pales. Thrall's always held his temper in check, always been reluctant to raise a hand against the son of his honor-brother, and Garrosh has underestimated him for it - until now. Without a word, he stands and leaves the room. My brother forces the anger from his features and turns to meet Varian's warily respectful gaze.

"I apologize, your Majesty. I thought Garrosh could be better-behaved than that. I was wrong. You are a guest at my hearth; it is my responsibility to chastise him for that insult, and I respectfully ask that you allow me to defend your honor, and let this go."

"I don't want to get in the middle of orcish politics," Varian says slowly, "and had our positions been reversed, I would be making the same request of you, so...thank you, and I will."

His fists are still clenched on his knees, and I can tell that he has not entirely forced Lo'gosh away, but he held his feral half in check without allowing so much as a snarl of reaction. In fact, he has been admirably well-behaved on the whole so far, and I realize that it is my duty to reward such things, but I am already in his presence. What could I possibly give him?

My fingers are brushing the back of his left hand suddenly, and he looks at me with the startled hope of someone who had been expecting abuse rather than kindness. I'm moderately startled at my own action, so I suppose his surprise is justified. "You may call on me whenever you choose, tomorrow, my lord. The Kor'kron will tell you where to find me."

"Taretha..." Varian swallows, but presses ahead. "Please. Why did you accept my proposal?"

_If I said no, I think it would break him._ "Because you were right."

In his eyes, I can see the memory of _I need that, Taretha,_ but what he says is, "Anduin needs a mother."

I nod my agreement, both to his words and to what was left unsaid. It's comforting, knowing that he prefers not to speak the true reason as well. The strange intimacy of our relationship is something I prefer not to think about, much less discuss, and it seems that he feels the same way - at least when it comes to discussing it. As far as I'm concerned, that's for the best; I don't think I could do this if I had to discuss it with anyone else. I can barely do this as it is.

 

===============

 

“You look lovely today, my lady.” Varian grins, damp hair drying quickly in the late-morning sun. He doesn’t seem to be any worse for the wear after his bout with my brother.

“Thank you, my lord,” I say somewhat distantly.

He bows, the formal motion at odds with the plain clothing he wears: buff-colored cotton and simple brown leggings. He looks like a particularly ugly farmhand, which I suppose is fitting given my plain linen dress, white bodice and blue skirts that breathe nicely in the hot air. I dip him an equally formal curtsy.

“May I show you around Orgrimmar, my lord?”

His eyes glow with restrained delight. “I would be honored, my lady.”

At my gesture, eight Elites materialize and arrange themselves behind us. Varian extends his arm, but my sharp glance impales him and he turns the gesture into a gallant sweep, indicating that I should lead and he will follow. The brilliant sunlight warms the rocks of Orgrimmar, which radiate that heat in turn. I am used to it, but my future husband wilts slightly – although he strolls along gamely enough. Few passers-by give us a second glance, more likely from knowing that Golthak will not tolerate disrespect towards me or the wisdom of not antagonizing eight Kor’kron Elites than a simple lack of curiosity about the scarred man at my side. The few double-takes or prolonged looks aimed our way are startled, and often accompanied by incredulous whispers that have the king of Stormwind flinching minutely. It seems that the gladiator Lo’gosh is remembered vividly, and not widely identified as royalty without the customary trappings of such.

“I trust your meeting with my brother was concluded satisfactorily?” I ask politely in an attempt to distract him, taking pity on how uncomfortable he seems to be growing.

“Eh? Oh, yes. I would say it clarified the relationship between Stormwind and Orgrimmar considerably.”

I can hear the grin in Golthak’s voice when he asks, “Who won?”

“I should get used to that, shouldn’t I?” Varian half-asks me. “I get the feeling I won’t be escaping your bodyguard’s commentary anytime soon.”

“I go where Taretha goes,” my faithful shadow says with obvious amusement.

Varian gives him a serious look. “I’m glad you do,” he says quietly. “I’m glad Taretha has you to protect her.”

My face feels hotter than the sun can be held responsible for at the reminder that while I will be swearing to honor and defend my husband, he will be swearing to love and protect me. “The fight, my lord,” I say stiffly.

“Oh. Yes. Thrall and I decided that in the interest of international stability, the outcome should stay between the two of us.”

I turn to face him once I’ve regained a normal complexion. “He won, didn’t he?”

Varian grimaces. “How does anyone that big move that fast?” Suddenly, his face twists into a malicious grin. “Garrosh is probably asking himself that right now.”

We stroll along for several minutes in tentatively pleasant silence.

“Do you think the Warchief would let me…discuss things with Garrosh?” Varian asks lightly.

I turn to answer him, but only manage to gasp before the dozen or so grim-faced orcs gaining on us shoulder roughly past, at least three of them deliberately elbowing my future husband hard enough to knock him into me, sending us both tumbling to the ground. About half of the orcs are older, old enough that bloodlust and battle is likely to be all they remember of the ‘good old days’. The other half are young, too young to have been blooded in battle against the Lich king, but old enough to be itching to test their worth. A perfect mix of troublemakers.

"Taretha, are you alright?"

Varian offers me his hand, concern and apology all over his face as he helps me to my feet and waits while I dust myself off. At my nod, he turns back to the rowdy group of orcs who had so rudely interrupted us.

"Whore," one of the older ones spits. "First Blackmoore's, and now his."

"Traitor. Sleeping with humans who have no honor."

"How did you fool the Frostwolf into accepting you?"

"Did you ever care for anything beyond your own skin?"

Golthak growls and readies his axe, the Elites following his example, but Varian holds up one hand in a silent command for them to hold.

"I will give you one chance to apologize to my future wife," he says grimly.

"Pagh! You think we're afraid of you? Puny human king."

"Dragon's lapdog."

Varian smiles. It's not a happy expression. "You must have me confused for the _other_ Varian," he says lightly. Then his voice drops to a menacing growl. "He's not here anymore."

Before the thugs can register the change in his demeanor, he is bashing two of their heads together and lashing out with one foot to kick a third in the essentials. Within two breaths the other thugs are lunging to attack him, but he's no longer there. He's vaulted over the shoulders of one to kick another in the face, then head-butts his fellow in the gut. I can see why he got called 'ghost wolf'. The sheer ferocity with which he fights is matched only by his grace and agility. In less than two minutes the orcs are all groaning or unconscious, with the exception of the one who'd called me a whore. That one is pressed against the stone wall of the nearest building, one of Varian's strong, browned hand on his throat keeping him pinned while the other is poised to smash into his face with brutal force. The older orc's expression hints that my future husband is crushing his windpipe.

"Varian!"

His fist stops three fingers away from the orc's face.

"Let him breathe."

Reluctantly, that browned hand loosens and the orc sucks in a lungful of air and promptly coughs. I wait until the coughing fit subsides, by which point the groaning thugs have realized how the situation stands.

"I am not Varian's whore." My orcish echoes gutturally off the stone. "I chose to accept his offer to be able to do this-" I gesture at the orc held pinned. "-on a grander scale. To keep him in check." Now I gesture to the bloodless carnage. "Would you rather I let him run rampant? All it will take is a single word. Call me a whore again, and I will let him beat you bloody while the Kor'kron watch and applaud."

"Say it," Varian growls in the same language. "Warchief will thank me for saving him the trouble." He pulls his fist back again, ready to strike but waiting.

The moment stretches.

"Call off your human, Taretha," the older orc coughs. He leers as Varian backs away, glowering. "I was wrong. _He_ is _your_ whore."

The silence turns brittle, all eyes going to Varian, but the king of Stormwind laughs. "If I was, she'd fuck me."

The profanity is less startling for being in orcish, but still more crude than I expected from him. Then again, with how he learned orcish, he probably doesn't know a more polite term for it. The thugs drag their friends out of the street, limping. Once they have all vanished, Varian returns to my side and offers me his arm. I lay my fingers lightly on it, and we resume our interrupted walk.

"Are you hurt?" I ask quietly. He looks surprised at my concern. "If you got hurt defending me and you do not tell me, I will be very displeased with you, my lord."

The sharper, chillier tone makes him relax and smile, as though he is not certain how to react if I am not displaying hostility towards him. Well, that gets no argument from me - I am more than happy to keep him at a distance in that respect.

"Nothing a kiss won't fix," he says lightly, grinning broadly even before my expression goes from chilly to murderous. "I'm not hurt," he says in a more neutral tone.

I force the hostility from my expression. "Good."

Wisely, my husband-to-be says nothing.

We are almost back to Grommash Hold when Varian tenses, and it doesn’t take much to figure out why. The orc who has just left is none other than-

“Rehgar,” the king of Stormwind growls. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t beat you until you have to use your own magic to put yourself back together.”

“Lo’gosh!” The name is a reflexive exclamation, but it only enrages Varian further. The former gladiator master licks his lips nervously. “I can’t.”

Varian lifts my hand from his arm in an incongruous display of civility. “Stand back, my lady. There’s going to blood, and I don’t want any of it to get on you.”

“Varian-!” I cry, but he is undaunted.

“Thrall confronted his master. I’m confronting mine.”

“Thrall…” Actually, that’s a good point. “…will hear about this one way or another. Just don’t kill him.”

I step back out of the way as Varian glances at me, surprise written clearly on his marred features. My raised chin dares him to comment, but he only nods grimly and turns back to face his opponent.

“No armor, Rehgar. No weapons. No magic. Just you and me.”

“You’ll cream me,” the orc says as he strips down to tunic and pants.

“That’s the other thing,” Varian says as he strips similarly. “Don’t hold back, or I’m going to make you wish you hadn’t killed that crocolisk.”

Rehgar grins as battle-joy takes him in its clutches. “You’ve gotten uglier since you left, Croc-Bait. Looks like you tried to fight a mountain with your face.”

My future husband grins, already in the grip of his own battle-lust. “Maybe, but the scars mean I _won_. Come on, do your worst.”

They rush together, grunting as flesh impacts flesh, punching and kicking and throwing and being thrown. Rehgar’s natural toughness and Varian’s agility equal each other out; Varian hits more often, but Rehgar does more damage each time he connects. One of the Elites tries to get his fellows to wager on the outcome, but there are no takers. Not against the man who was known as Lo’gosh. It takes several minutes of unbridled brutality for the combatants to reach the state of mutual exhaustion, both sinking to the dusty street as though by agreement. Rehgar is more badly beaten, but there is no clear winner. After several seconds of panting, he calls the magic that knits flesh and bone and begins undoing the damage my future husband inflicted on him. Once he has been restored to full health, he turns his glowing hands on Varian, who nods in silent thanks as cuts and bruises and a black eye fade away.

“Good fight,” he says shortly as the shaman finishes. “Apology accepted.”

“So you did read that letter. Good.” Rehgar offers Varian a hand up. “Glad it wasn’t a waste of the Warchief’s time. You know he dismantled the Crimson Ring?”

“I’d heard, but not the details.” All hostility seems to be gone now, replaced by the bonding that comes from sated aggression.

“It was quite the spectacle. Never anger a man who can punctuate his sentences with lightning bolts.”

Varian glances at me and grins. “You know me, Rehgar. I don’t know when I should back down from a fight.”

“Yes, but you don’t seem to know how to _lose_ , either.”

“The only loss is death from behind. Everything else is just an alternate victory.” He claps the orc on the shoulder. “Good seeing you again.”

Rehgar looks startled at that. “You’re not angry about…?”

At least he looks sheepish at that. “Well…not anymore. I wasn’t going to accept your apology, but it’s been pointed out to me that I’d been acting like a spoiled brat when it comes to having been temporarily denied my freedom.” He grins. “That, and being able to beat your ugly face in was very satisfying.”

“You’re not in a position to call anyone ugly, Croc-Bait,” Rehgar snorts. “But I’m glad we were able to work things out. I always respected you, even before I learned who you were, and it brought me dishonor for you to blame the Horde for my actions. So…thank you, your Majesty.” One green fist thumps his chest in salute.

Varian bows. “Trust me, the pleasure was all mine.”

Once inside the dim coolness of Grommash Hold, my husband-to-be murmurs, “Thank you for understanding. I’m a little confused, though. I thought…” he hesitates, looking strangely vulnerable. “I thought your goal was to make me act like a king instead of a brute.”

I stop and level an icy look at him. “I agreed to marry a _wolf_ , not a lapdog. My aim is not to pull your fangs, your Majesty. Just to keep you from attacking thoughtlessly.”

He blinks, then slowly grins. “I under-estimated you, my lady wolf.” He offers me a formal bow. “I suppose we should go tell your brother what just happened.”

Mollified, I place my fingertips back on his arm. “Both fights, not just your settled score.”

“You should have let me punch the other one a few more times,” he says with a scowl.

“Be merciful in your victories, my lord,” I chide. “Besides, now that the warning has been given, you’re clear to defend my virtue as vigorously as you like should any other orc be foolish enough to dispute it.”

He thinks about it for a minute. “I’d say ‘you’re no fun’, but it would be a lie. You’re still the most exciting opponent I’ve faced in a long time.”

“I still think you’ve lost your mind, but I agreed to marry you, so I have no room to talk.”

“You’re not any crazier than I am. You’re a beautiful, clever, fierce woman who doesn’t back down from a fight and doesn’t know how to lose.” His grin widens as I glare at him. “You’re a wolf, my lady, and like it or not…we’re well-matched.”

I decline to give that statement any response. Secretly, however, I have to admit that he’s right.


	2. A step forward into terror

“You look beautiful, Tari.” Thrall is unfazed at the unhappy look I shoot at him. “I know why you never wear your hair down,” he continues in a soothing rumble, “but it only proves that Blackmoore was occasionally civilized enough to know true beauty when he saw it.”

Molilfied, if still tense enough to sing like a bowstring if plucked, I turn back to the full mirror Jaina provided and take in my reflection. My hands automatically smooth imaginary wrinkles out of the wide satin front panel of my gown, the unadorned fabric serving to draw the eye to the chiffon silk side panels sewn with tiny crystals and seed pearls. They angle together towards my waist, leading the eye to the elegant embroidery there, and at my bust. I was able to negotiate the opals and diamonds off of my bosom, but at the cost of bearing them set in white gold. My throat glitters; my fingers gleam; my wrists sparkle. Two handmaids cover my unbound hair with a fine net that makes my head shimmer. The veil – silk as pale and soft as moonlight, imported from the finest looms on Teldrassil – barely obscures my face when they have fastened the delicate clasps holding it to the web of white gold that lays like a portent of doom upon my head.

I am marrying King Varian Wrynn today.

As if to underscore the severity of my situation, the handmaids on loan from the Stormwind tailor commissioned to make my wedding dress fasten the train to the rest of my gown, the flowing silk lavishly embroidered and studded with more tiny crystals and pearls, feeling three times as heavy as it should under the weight of my apprehension.

The sturdy leather half-boots on my feet are a comfort, even if they are bleached white and trimmed with white gold that no one will see beneath the bell-like petticoats and skirts. Varian was wise enough to not press for something daintier; it may be the first day of spring, and sunny, but it was cold and rainy not three days before, and Theramore is largely paved with stone. My toes grip the soft fleece in a nervous gesture.

“You’re ready now, my lady,” one of the handmaids says with a curtsy, and they both retreat at my nod and murmur of thanks.

“There’s a few minutes yet before we need to move into position,” Thrall says, his voice steadying me. “You are stronger than steel, braver than most warriors, and the pride of the Frostwolf Clan – and the Horde.” He grins, tusks gleaming pale against Doomhammer’s black plate armor. “Today, you conquer the Alliance in the name of the Horde. Today, Tari, you bring Stormwind’s king to heel.”

The anxiety transmutes itself into defiance. I am not chattel to be casually handed off to the highest bidder, I am the one who holds the reins wrapped around Varian’s throat. “Thank you,” I say, my voice calm and strong.

Thrall holds out one arm as though offering me a sword; I lay my hand on it as though it were one of the great white wolves of our clan, quiescent beneath my touch. The halls of Theramore’s cathedral are nearly empty as he leads me to the antechamber in which we will wait for our cue, although the muted roar nearby hints that the main room is full to bursting. Briefly, my lips curve in a fierce smile. The allies of my husband-to-be will be sailing to Stormwind to meet me upon our arrival, just before my coronation. The hubbub today is being made by dignitaries of the Horde. Varian will be standing by the altar in his finery, waiting for his bride to grace him with her presence, with nothing to calm his thoughts. The eyes of the Horde will be upon him, weighing, judging, reminding him just how vulnerable he is here. Even Jaina is more my ally than his.

The ocean of conversation rises and falls, then quiets to nothing, making the silence ring. In the absence of sound, the first strains of music can be clearly heard, and with measured steps Thrall leads me to the doors that open before us. Head high, I pace at his side as we walk up the aisle, and Jaina and Anduin beam at me from Varian’s side. The Lady of Theramore is wearing a gown similar to mine, albeit with lilac panels that evoke the image of her wearing a giant flower, while the prince is wearing a minute suit of shining gold-washed chainmail covered by a grand surcoat of blue bearing the Stormwind lion. My future husband, I am glad to see, looks suddenly terrified despite his gleaming armor as Thrall stops before him, looming, and presents my hand. Varian takes it, fingers just slightly clammy, and Thrall steps back to stand beside Golthak.

The archbishop begins speaking, but I’m not paying attention. I have read the agreed-upon words enough that their sounds are a familiar pattern that can be ignored, and Varian’s expression is much more interesting. No doubt we seem to be staring raptly at each other while flowery phrases and blessings swirl around us; only our attendants are close enough to see that my expression is stonily superior while his can only be described as pleading. When our vows come, I swear to honor and defend my husband, and he represses a flinch at the sharp edge in my voice. Then it is his turn, and suddenly I am struggling to keep my stony mask in place because his expression has gone vulnerable, contrite and devoted at the same time, as though he is apologizing for inflicting his affections on me as he swears to love and protect me. The archbishop announces us as bride and groom, and my husband sinks to one knee. As defined by the marriage treaty, he holds my hand in his and bows over it, lips brushing ever so gently against my skin before he stands and looks at me as if his heart’s desire were before him but forever out of his reach. Then, with trembling hands, Varian lifts my veil and the crowd cheers.

The music swells again as we walk down the aisle together, Varian holding my hand as if it were a delicate treasure, both of us struggling to keep our composure for very different reasons. Golthak follows, my faithful shadow, with Anduin beside him, and behind them Jaina and Thrall mirror us. I manage a small, tight smile at the thought that they will be holding a ceremony of their own eventually, and wonder how long it will take word to reach Stormwind – and how my lord husband will react to it. We emerge at last into the thin sunlight, and practically the entire population of Theramore bursts into raucous cheering. The mild weather reminds me that the shamans were able to promise clear skies for the following day, when _Mercy’s Vengeance_ and her robust escort sail for Stormwind’s harbor. The reminder that nearly everything I own has already been packed and placed aboard the ship kills the last of my confidence, and I want so very badly to rip off my finery and run away from my husband.

Varian looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and his smile falters. “I hope,” he says for my ears alone, “that someday you’ll look back on this day and be glad it happened.”

There is no suitable reply I can make to that; I can hardly admit that my hope only extends so far as not regretting this on my dying day. My mask firms once again, shored up by my displeasure, and we lead the cheering masses to the enormous banquet set out in Theramore’s central plaza. Thankfully, all that remains of our duty today is to sit at the lavishly-decorated table set up for us and nibble on food that other people bring for our pleasure. I didn’t even have to insist that no wine, mead, or ale of any kind be presented at the wedding table; surprisingly, it was Varian who voiced that condition first.

When we arrive, Varian waits until I am comfortable before seating himself, and the first beaming servant hurries forward with a tray of food and drink. The Horde dignitaries and the citizens of Theramore pour into the plaza, filling it with sound and motion and joy that I do not feel, although my lord husband seems to regain his good mood. For my part, I sit and nibble and try not to think of how tomorrow, I will begin my life as the wife of an Alliance king rather than a Warchief’s sister. Even Golthak’s familiar presence behind me can’t reassure me. At least I don’t seem to be putting a damper on Varian’s enjoyment, although I can’t help but notice that he is doing his best to pretend I am not sitting next to him. Occasionally, someone will come up to us to wish us well, either out of genuine goodwill or just to be able to say they did so.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as one well-wisher wanders off.

“For what?” I snap, my hands gripping each other tightly in my lap.

“For being so happy when you’re obviously not.”

“You’ve gotten what you wanted, haven’t you?” I direct my glare at the sun, creeping now towards the horizon. “Why _shouldn’t_ you be happy?”

I can practically feel the look he gives me, those damned vulnerable eyes. “Because it comes close to taking joy in your misery, and I don’t want to do that.”

“What are you taking joy in, then, my lord?”

“Anduin will have a mother,” he answers softly.

_I need that, Taretha._

“You may hate me all you like, but I know you care for him and you’ll be the best mother to him you can. That by itself is worth everything, isn’t it? You’ll be helping to shape the next king of Stormwind. The next leader of the Alliance. It may take years, it may take all of the orcs and men who remember the First War growing old and dying, but peace _will_ come – and it will come partially because you agreed to marry a stubborn, thickheaded jerk who needs to be put in his place when he gets carried away.”

It’s a good argument, but the bars of my invisible prison are too close for me to be comforted by that right now.

“Blackmoore wanted a son,” I say quietly, emotionlessly. “He told me repeatedly that if I ever bore his child, he’d marry me so his son could inherit. Being his mistress was bad enough, but maids can be dismissed and mistresses put aside. I held hope that someday, I’d be able to escape when my doing so wouldn’t open my father and mother to his wrath. To be his wife…” I shudder, my skin crawling in horror. “I grew to fear the threat of marriage almost as much as the look in his eyes when he wanted me.”

“And I made you cry,” my husband murmurs sadly. “Light, I feel like a jerk, enjoying myself while you…Taretha, I’m sorry. Do you want to leave? It’s late enough that no one will mind.”

He loves me. I can hurt him at any time. I am not powerless, I am a conqueror.

But I don’t feel like a conqueror. I feel like a weak, vulnerable girl who has just turned eighteen and learned that the world is a cruel place indeed.

My voice is hardly a whisper when I say, “Yes.”

Quiet, serious and worried, Varian leads me from the plaza to the inn where our separate rooms for the night are. The two girls who had prepared me for my wedding are waiting, and my lord husband leaves me to their care with a bow and a murmured, “Good night.” With reverent efficiency they strip me of my finery and pack it for safekeeping on the voyage to Stormwind, and I am free to crawl into my bed and hide beneath the covers and try not to think about what the morning will bring.

 

===================================

 

When I wake at dawn, there is a glowing pendant on a chain sitting on my bedside table. I recognize the design from the talk Jaina and I had in Dalaran and brush my finger over the glowing crystal.

“When I walked Thrall to his room,” Jaina’s recorded voice says, “your husband was sitting outside your door like an abandoned hound. I had to walk out and teleport back in,” she continues mischievously. “Anyway, here’s the pendant. It’s attuned as a portal-anchor. You’re not alone, Tari.”

Message complete, the crystal’s light fades. Just to test it, I place my finger on the other crystal, which lights obediently up. “Thank you,” I murmur, and release it.

I take some of my frustrations out on my hair, brushing it past smooth and gleaming and braiding it tightly, the familiar tug on my scalp a reassurance that I am in control. The pendant is cool beneath my simple dress, further reassuring me that I have not been abandoned to my husband’s tender mercies.

The fear that simmers beneath my skin cools somewhat as I remember Varian escorting me away from the celebration. Perhaps his mercy is more tender than I’ve been giving him credit for, but that redoubles the fear and when I leave in search of breakfast, my scowl is a weapon held ready against the sight of my lord husband in the yard outside, fighting invisible foes. I ignore him when he passes through the common room, eyes closed against whatever expression he might be wearing, hands firmly wrapped around a mug of hot tea. Behind me, I can almost feel Golthak tense until Varian’s footsteps lead up the stairs and out of sight.

“He looks like a boy being denied sweets,” my protector murmurs to me, amused.

I open my eyes so that I can roll them, groaning. “Why did I do this, Golthak?”

“You needed a challenge,” he answers simply.

Sipping tea, I think about that. Getting the disparate factions within the Horde to work together was enough to drive any one man to distraction, and for a few years it had consumed my days nicely – but I hadn’t been needed in that capacity for a while when the assault on Northrend had been announced. Jaina had assured me in Dalaran that I wasn’t crazy, that I’d seen something that needed fixing and stepped up to fix it. Perhaps she’d been right; certainly there is more wrong with the kingdom of Stormwind than just its king.

Light, rapid footsteps on the stairs catch my attention, and my brooding is neatly dissipated by Anduin’s incandescent smile. “Taretha!”

“Anduin!” I set my mug down to hug him tightly.

“You’re coming home with us,” he says into my shoulder. “You’re really coming home with us. You _understand_ , and you make Father remember who he is, and you’re _coming home_ with us!”

“I still don’t know if I can stand being around him this much,” I warn.

He grins at me as he takes a seat at the table. “You’ll be Queen Taretha. You can go anywhere you want.” A maid brings out fresh bread and hot sausage, and Anduin helps himself to some. “If you want Father to leave you alone for a while, all you have to do is tell him.”

Somehow, that had never occurred to me.

“Tell me what?” Varian says from the top of the stairs, rattling down them easily, confident and powerful as if everything his gaze fell upon were his to command.

The bars of my cage close in suddenly, my blood turning to ice. Varian freezes where he is, at the foot of the stairs, then turns around. When the ice thaws into unnatural calm, Golthak says, “It’s clear.”

Slowly, my lord husband turns and looks at me for a long moment before warily approaching the table. “Good morning, my lady,” he says stiffly.

“Good morning, my lord.”

“Captain says the weather’s fine for sailing. We’ll cast off in three hours, but there’s books in your room if you want to get settled in before that.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Varian shoots a look at me, irritated by my lack of reaction, then scowls at the sausage on the end of his fork and takes a vicious bite. Anduin looks back and forth between us for a minute, then stands up from the table.

“I’m going to get my things and settle on board,” he announces. “Taretha, do you want to come with me?”

I glance at my lord husband just as he looks up at me, but whatever he sees on my face seems to discourage him and he looks away. “Yes,” I say, and we leave the king of Stormwind to his breakfast.

 

===================================

 

The room is the same one I’d stayed in previously, a semi-familiar den in which to hide, and I do just that. I ignore the sounds of the crew preparing to cast off, ignore Varian striding boldly into the royal suite, ignore everything but the book in which I am drowning my terror. Some hours later, I realize that Golthak has left a lunch tray on my table, and I eat before again losing myself in worlds of printed words. When the light from my small windows fades, I eat the dinner that has been left for me and venture out into the quiet common room in search of better light. Although suitable for ensuring a lack of stubbed toes, the enclosed lamps in my room are horrible to read by. Varian is standing in front of the bay windows, hands clasped behind his back as he stares in Theramore’s direction. Briefly, I consider retreating to my room and attempting to sleep, but I seat myself instead and angle my book to catch the light.

“I’m sorry, Taretha,” my husband says quietly, still facing away. “I know yesterday was hard on you. I should have remembered that today would be equally rough. I’ll understand if you want to stay in your room tomorrow.” He sighs, one hand resting against the glass, his forehead making a muted sound as he leans forward in a defeated slump. “The common room’s all yours; I’m going to bed, I just wanted to make sure I apologized for this morning.”

Despite myself, his apology and resignation warm a tiny corner of my heart – or perhaps it is the reminder that I can punish him just by withholding my presence. “Thank you, Varian,” I say softly.

Slowly, he pushes himself away from the window and begins walking towards his door like a man on the way to his execution, and guilt snaps at me. Nearly a full day is too long a punishment for a moment’s accidental thoughtlessness, and merely accepting his apology isn’t enough reward for him having made one – particularly when his only crime was descending a staircase with confidence.

“Varian?” Fearful of what I might see on his face, I keep my eyes on the book. “You don’t have to leave, my lord.”

After a moment, he moves carefully over to a chair well away from mine and sits. “Thank you, my lady.”

I read until the dying light makes the words impossible to discern and Varian sits quietly, watching me. When I finally lower my book, he stands and bows with a flourish.

“Good night, my lady. May your dreams be sweet enough that you grace us with your presence in the morning.” A small smile plays on his lips. “The chairs out here are more comfortable, at any rate.”

“We’ll see,” I reply sternly, although I am fighting back a smile of my own. “Good night, my lord.”

 

===================================

 

Varian looks up as I leave my room the next morning to join him and Anduin in the sitting room. He must have just come from doing what passes for bathing aboard the ship; his hair is nearly black from being soaked and lies flat on his head. He smiles at me, but the stubble on his chin transforms his face into Blackmoore’s.

“Ah, my lovely bride! How good of you to join...us?”

The smile flickers out to be replaced with puzzlement as my expression drops past icy and into loathing. I turn right back around and shut my door behind me before leaning against it, fighting to keep the panic at bay and failing.

“Golthak?” Varian’s voice is muffled by the door, but still audible. “Help me out. What did I do?”

“Not what you did. What you didn’t.”

“Then tell me what I didn’t, since apparently she’s not speaking to me. Wait…”

Silence. I almost wonder what’s going on.

“At the Argent Tournament. In the first hour past dawn. She was beyond unhappy to see me then, too.”

More silence.

“…my hair?” A pause. Footsteps. “Taretha?”

His voice comes from right behind me; he must be just on the other side of the door.

“Did Blackmoore have dark hair?”

“Yes.” The one word is all I can force through my tight throat.

“Was he clean-shaven?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“Why are you only bothered by _my_ hair being dark, and _my_ face being unshaven?”

The panic gives way to broken calm. “You are the only one who looks at me as he did, with the confidence that comes from power and the charm that comes from a history of having gotten what you want.”

“How did he wear his hair? Should I cut-“

“No!”

Silence.

“Careful, my lady,” he says teasingly. “You’re coming dangerously close to admitting that you like something about me.”

“Shave, my lord.” There is no humor in my voice. “We can trade barbs when you look like a properly civilized brute again.”

“For you, Taretha,” he says, so quietly that I almost don’t hear it.

 


	3. Chain of words worn willingly

The weather is fair as we sail to Stormwind. That, however, is the best that can be said about the trip. Varian is remarkably well-behaved, deliberately keeping himself far enough away at all possible times that I do not feel physically threatened, but it does little to calm my nerves. Despite knowing that I would be marrying him and willingly wearing the ring he put on my finger, now that the vows have been spoken they hang invisibly around my neck, silently strangling me. After the first few times I abruptly return to my room for an hour or so,  Varian starts announcing a need for fresh air and leaving the sitting room when I have been silent for more than a handful of minutes. I loathe that he is able to see my distress so plainly, and loathe even more the shard of gratitude I feel when he leaves before I feel the need to do so.

“You’re braver than I am, Taretha,” Anduin says to me one afternoon after his father has again declared the need to feel the wind in his hair.  His blue eyes are every bit as deadly as his sire’s, but they are no danger to me. “Father says that the brave feel fear just as much as the cowards do, but they keep going anyway.”

“I don’t see that I have much of a choice,” I reply, trying not to sound as grim as I feel.

He looks up at me, eyes wide. “You could have said no. Father was expecting you to say no.”

_But that would have broken him._ I close my mouth on the words, swallow, and say, “What would he have done if I had?”

Anduin toys with his book for several seconds. “It would have hurt him. A lot. He probably wouldn’t have paid attention to all the things he should have.”

“And what would that do to Stormwind? What would that mean for the Alliance?”

“You still could have said no,” he whispers. “If anyone asked me to live with a woman who reminded me that strongly of Lady Prestor, I…I…”

I leave my chair to cross the room and sit next to him, and for a long minute we simply hold each other.

“The first year,” I say softly, “any human man with dark hair or in his cups or who raised a hand towards me sent me into a panic. Golthak was…enthusiastic…about discouraging any show of hostility towards me, and eventually it faded. Now, nearly eight years later, I can face dark-haired men and drunkards without fear because the terror has lost its grip on me. Fear is a teacher, Anduin. It ensures that you survive because you know when something is dangerous. To have been put in genuine peril, as we have…our fear is like a spoiled child, throwing tantrums. The more we see that fear is over-reacting, the weaker it gets.”

“But Father still scares you sometimes.”

“Your father is charming and powerful, and he knows it. Blackmoore was the same. Sometimes, when his hair is dark or he moves too quickly, he…blurs…and even though I know Blackmoore is dead…” I shake my head. “I lived through the worst of what he did to me in life, he will not defeat me in death.”

Anduin thinks about that for a minute. “If you can learn to deal with it, Taretha, then so can I,” he announces at last.

 

===============

 

As much as the royal suite has been a wooden cage for me, the sight of Stormwind Harbor and the reminder of what I have gotten myself into makes staying aboard the ship a much more enticing idea. My fingers grip the ship’s rail until they are white and I stand in the morning sunlight watching the activity on the docks. Troops and servants mill about preparing what will be a royal procession, the king of Stormwind returning triumphant with his bride. Off to the side, a flash of white turns out to be the horse I will be riding, a mare without a single speck to mar her flawless white coat. Varian’s mount, like mine, was dictated by the terms of the treaty, and I distract myself for a brief moment wondering where anyone found a stallion with a coat nearly the color of my hair.

“Time to get ready,” Golthak says quietly, and with an effort I turn away from the dock and retreat to my room, where the tailor’s handmaids are waiting to prepare me.

 

===============

 

"Smile, my lady. Unless you hate the whole kingdom, save your scowls for me."

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but his broad, charming smile hasn't moved. How does he _do_ that? I resist the urge to roll my eyes as the procession gets started. Thirty Royal Guard, then the flag bearers displaying the colors of Stormwind and the modified crest of Durnholde - and that was a fun bout of negotiation by itself. Trumpeters and drummers, the Captain of the Guard, Anduin on a bay gelding and Golthak on his black wolf, and then Varian on his gleaming palomino stallion and me on the pristine white mare. Fifty Royal Guard just in case anyone was stupid enough to try anything. The streets are crowded with what looks to be the entire population of the kingdom, all eager to catch a glimpse of their king and his new bride, their future queen. The coronation will be tomorrow. For now, despite it being public knowledge that this is not a love match, most of them want to pretend that we are a loving couple. I am well aware that I am being compared to Tiffin, something that has been deliberately played up. It took the better part of a day to convince me to agree to wear my hair down, and at that I insisted on having my temple braids and Frostwolf medallion.

As much as I don't want to, I am well aware that I need to put on a good face. Reluctantly, I dust off the smile that fooled Blackmoore for so long.

"You look beautiful," Varian says out of the corner of his mouth, waving at the crowd.

Between clenched teeth, I utter an orcish phrase that I don't doubt he would have learned in the Crimson Ring, detailing what he can do with his compliment. In front of me, Golthak's shoulders shake with repressed laughter.

Varian’s smile looks a bit strained, now. "That's the spirit."

The rest of our meandering journey passes with no further commentary, and once the gates close us inside the castle grounds, my false smile is replaced by a look of such naked loathing that the king of Stormwind pales beneath his tan.

"Captain, see to it that Lady Taretha has an escort equal to mine." He dismounts and hands the stallion's reins to a stablehand, while another steps up to assist me. "If I'm not mistaken, I believe the lady wishes to retire to her chambers until the banquet tonight." To the steward who has appeared at his side, he says, "Has the Queen's suite been prepared?"

"Yes, your Majesty. All is in readiness for the coronation tomorrow."

"Excellent. Taretha?" Varian turns to me, visibly bracing for the impact of my glare. It doesn't seem to help.

"Yes, _your Majesty?_ "

He sighs. "If you would be so good as to allow me to call on you before the banquet tonight? I'm sure there is much you wish to say to me."

Oh no, you don't. You're not getting out of it that easily; I am no starving wolf to be satisfied by just any sacrifice of flesh.

"You are mistaken, your Majesty. There is _nothing_ I wish to say to you."

I sweep into the castle, followed by Golthak and four Royal Guard. Somewhat surprisingly, I remember the way to the ambassador's suite reserved for me ever since my first visit, and my two Alterac maids are ready and waiting for me. They bow and chorus a greeting before descending with clever fingers to extricate me from my wedding dress.

"Your trunks are all in the Queen's Suite," Clara says apologetically, "but you've a nightshift and dressing gown, and of course your gown for tomorrow. And," she adds, glancing around just in case Varian is lurking in the shadows, "Pauline brought one of her frocks. It's under the pillow."

"Thank you," I tell them with a genuine smile.

"Is his Majesty going to be calling on you, my lady?" Pauline asks shyly.

"If he does," I toss over my shoulder as I wrap myself in the dressing gown, "I'm not answering."

"Oh, but my _lady_ , he's your _husband!"_

Clara gives her friend an exasperated look. "She was never married, my lady. I had a husband, but he never came back from the war. Don't miss him much. Will you be wanting a book?"

"No, thank you. I'm going to meditate so that I don't kill my lord husband when I see him at the banquet."

 

===============

 

An hour before the banquet, I emerge from my bedroom and eye the pile of white satin and silk with distaste. The terms hammered out require the majority of my hair to be loose and flowing for the duration of the procession and banquet, unfortunately, but having Pauline brush it for me takes the edge off the feeling that I am once again caged by Blackmoore's desires. Reluctantly, I shed the dressing gown and stand like a manikin while Clara and Pauline fasten my wedding dress around me. I'm tempted to order it burned when this night is done, but that would be a waste of good cloth. Clara suggested cutting it into strips and distributing them as charms to the common girls; I may do just that. Certainly, it will be satisfying to take a sharp knife to this thing.

While Pauline brushes my hair to a silken honey flow, Clara eyes me critically and applies cautious dabs of various cosmetics. The jewelry comes next, delicate chains and filigree of white gold, hairnet and necklace and bracelets and rings and elegant drops that hang from my ears, diamonds and pearls and pale, milky opal. I feel like a symbol rather than a person - which, for tonight, I am.

Golthak opens the door and peers at us, a grunt his only comment on my appearance. His armor gleams and he looks fierce enough that my maids fall silent. "Your husband is here," he says shortly.

"I will see him," I say coolly.

Varian steps through the door, looking resplendent in velvet and satin, blue and flowing gold. His cape is equally as long as my train, and a medallion just as massive as mine hangs from a gold chain as thick as my copper one, displaying the crest of the House of Wrynn to match my Frostwolf insignia, resting firmly on his chest. Where my hair glitters with white gold and pearls, his has been lightly oiled and confined in back with a gold ring while the crown of Stormwind hides the majority - to my relief. The scars that mar his face stand out sharply amid this sea of finery.

For a long moment we are frozen in this tableau: Clara and Pauline silent as the dead, making their obeisance so low to the floor that their skirts pool around them; Golthak standing by the open door as though ready to guard it from any invader; Varian and I staring as though each were seeing the other for the first time. What he sees in my face I cannot say, but he looks at me with longing and quiet despair; the object of his desire forever out of his reach.

"If I say that you are lovely beyond description," he says huskily, "will you accept the compliment as the praise that it is? For truly, my lady, the moon goddess of the Kal'dorei could not possibly match your beauty."

Instead of answering, I dip a slow and graceful curtsy and extend one hand in silent invitation. Reverently, he takes it in one of his, and his skin is warm and rough against mine. He bows low over my hand, lips not touching my knuckles but coming close enough that I can feel his breath on my skin. When he straightens and meets my gaze again, it is with the expression of distant adoration I have seen so many times before. Gently, he transfers my hand to his arm as though it were a falcon he meant to fly, and we glide regally out of my sitting room with Golthak and the Royal Guard falling in neatly behind us.

 

===============

 

Trumpets ring out in a silvery crescendo as we approach the wide doors to the main hall, unseen servants working to open them in time with our approach so that it seems as if our very presence caused them to bow before us. The hall is filled with people: nobles and dignitaries and citizens of considerable influence, all clad in brilliant colors with gold and precious jewels glittering with every gesture while servants in muted brown scurry around amongst them like a flock of tropical birds attended by mice. In this sea of riotous color, I shine in my pale glory like the White Lady herself.

The crowd parts before us, silence rippling out with each beat of the measured pace we tread. There are two tables; the smaller one on the dais running half the width of the hall and the longer one running half its length. When we reach the center of the remaining half, we stop and the crowd resumes its noise and motion. Anduin worms his way through the crowd and sweeps us a gallant bow, clad in an outfit that is nearly the mirror image of his father's on a smaller scale. Following in his footsteps is a dwarf that, to judge by the ponderous construction of gold and precious stones adorning his brow, must be King Magni Bronzebeard. When Varian greets him as an old friend, this identification is confirmed.

They talk briefly about Anduin spending a few months in Ironforge to 'get a feel for things' and 'get his feet under him' while giving the two of us time to 'settle in'. Varian glances nervously at me at that proclamation, but I am as impassive as a marble statue. The implication is intriguing, however. If this is not Magni just downplaying the friction between us, then my intense dislike for my husband may not be as widely known among the Alliance as it is in the Horde. Of course, given Varian's romantic history, it may simply be the assumption that I will be a second Tiffin in this respect. Or it could be that dwarves are similar to orcs in that the best way to win one's heart is to start a fight. Ancestors know it was Jaina's fierce independence that first caught my brother's attention.

With an agreement in place to further discuss the details, Magni and Anduin move off into the crowd and are replaced by a tall night elf female clad in blue as pale as her lilac skin and the trappings of a priestess. I greet her in her own tongue, causing eyebrows to raise on both her and Varian. We exchange pleasantries; I inquire after the health of her High Priestess and the Archdruid, while she mouths interest in how Thrall and Jaina are doing. She casually offers us formal congratulations before drifting off into the crowd again.

"I didn't know you spoke Darnassian," Varian murmurs as the Kaldorei emissary glides away.

"Not much more than their greeting," I reply. "I spent most of my time as the go-between to Jaina's forces."

A massive draenei male strides up next, moving as though he were bearing the weight of plate armor and doing so easily despite wearing only formal, flowing robes. His common is oddly accented, rolling over the syllables in an almost hypnotic fashion. Most of what he says is the usual flowery, meaningless drivel I expect we'll be hearing all night, but slipped in there is Prophet Velen's relayed congratulations on many happy years together. Not a wish or a hope, as one might expect, but a statement of fact. From the way Varian is nodding blandly, he did not catch it. The Anchorite catches my discreetly horrified expression and smiles kindly, offering us a graceful bow as he makes room for the next well-wisher.

After an indeterminable time during which it seems like everyone in the room has mouthed pleasantries at us, Varian tenses like a wolf scenting prey and loudly announces that dinner is about to be served, and will everyone kindly take their seats? In the silence following his announcement, I can hear the lingering echoes of a bell with a high, clear voice which must have tipped him off. As the crowd flows towards the low table and mills around, he leads me onto the dais and makes a show of seating me at his left. Once I have been settled, he sweeps his cape out of the way with a flourish and takes his own seat. What follows is a flurry of movement as everyone else sits, and I find Anduin grinning up at me from my left while Varian cracks a quiet joke with Magni, seated to his right.

The courses are presented, tasted, and removed one by one while conversation flows around me. Varian is catching up with Magni in low tones, Anduin is chattering happily about spending time in Ironforge, and every so often my husband glances at me as though confirming that I am still present and still unhappy with him. My blank expression seems to make him more uncomfortable than an outright glare would.

When the last tiny plate and bowl have been deftly removed, Varian rises to his feet and holds his hands up for silence which, naturally, he gets.

“Thank you all for coming tonight to greet my lovely bride. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves, and you may continue to do so – but Lady Taretha and I are going to retire for the night.” He pauses while a wave of quiet, knowing chuckles sweeps the hall and dies. “I hope I will see you all tomorrow, as well, when she is crowned my queen.”

As a second wave sweeps the hall, this one cheering and well-wishing, Varian bows to me and offers me his hand to assist me out of my chair. I accept with a graceful nod and allow him to lead me out through a side exit, hand resting on his as though we were pacing the measure of a dance. Somehow, Golthak managed to make his way around the edge of the room and he falls into step behind us as we leave, flanked by the Royal Guard. In silence we make our way back to my sitting room, which is empty. My maids are feasting with the rest of the castle servants, leaving us momentarily alone. As soon as the sitting room door closes, I drop Varian’s hand and put a few feet between us before pinning him with an icy glare.

“I appreciate that you played the part so well,” he says before I have a chance to unleash the first verbal strike. “You could have made me look very bad, but you didn’t. Thank you.”

“There will be plenty of opportunities to express my displeasure with you, my lord. That was neither the time nor the place. My responsibility is to aid your kingdom, and the Horde, by keeping you in check. Discrediting you publicly would only lead to unrest.”

He winces. “I am grateful for your dedication to duty, my lady, no matter how much it may hurt.” His eyes soften. “I meant what I said earlier, by the way. You’re beautiful, Taretha, no matter what you wear or how angry you are with me.” At my glare, he grins crookedly and sweeps me a bow. “Sleep well, my lady. I will see you on the morrow.”

I glare daggers at him until the door closes behind him and his footsteps can no longer be heard, then begin removing jewelry until my maids return to take this ridiculous confection of silk and satin off of me.

 

===============

 

Thankfully, I am allowed to wear something with color for my coronation. I wake up at dawn and move to my sitting room, feeling off-balance at the realization that this was the last night I would spend in that bed. Today, I will move into the Queen’s Suite in the Royal Wing. Somewhat surprisingly, I do not feel that the coronation will mark the start of my duties and tie me to the king of Stormwind for the rest of my days. I suppose that in a way, I have been tied to Varian since he asked for my hand and I did not refuse him.

So caught up am I in my thoughts that the plate of sliced fruit does not immediately register, but when it does I am torn between anger and gentler emotions. Part of me wants to rage at his nerve, thinking he can placate me like this, but I can’t help seeing this as an apology. There is no note to shed light on my lord husband’s intentions and despite myself, I am mollified by the sweet and tart slices. If it is an apology, I suppose I accept it – although I doubt he knows what he is apologizing for. That thought bothers me: that the king of Stormwind could pay my moods such heed that he would scramble to fix whatever he imagined was behind my frown.

When my maids arrive, they discover me staring into the mute depths of the empty plate. That doesn’t last long; there are many preparations to be made before my coronation at mid-day. I am bathed, oiled, and anointed; dressed in several layers of under-shifts and petticoats; hair brushed and parted and braided and coiled; cosmetics tastefully applied; adorned with yellow gold at throat, ears, and wrist; and finally, sewn securely into a dress as splendid as what Varian wore the night before. Blue and gold, velvet and satin; again I feel like a symbol, which is not inaccurate. I am not allowed to wear my Frostwolf medallion this time, but having my hair elaborately braided is comfort enough.

Varian arrives to claim me not long after all the preparations are complete, wearing the same regal outfit as the night before. He says nothing, but his eyes glow with admiration and we repeat the same pantomime of bow and kiss before gliding regally through the halls, a matched set of royal dolls. When we reach the courtyard, he helps me into an elaborate open carriage and our escort forms up with Royal Guard mounted before and behind us, and Golthak in their midst. Anduin is already waiting for us in the carriage, and he smiles reassuringly at me as he nestles between us. A sideways glance at Varian show him smiling more gently than I have ever seen, proud and tender all at once as he takes in the sight of his wife and child. When he sees my eye on him, that gently loving look becomes  apprehension, and then apology when my own masklike expression does not change.

The crowd is silent as the carriage stops before the steps of the Stormwind Cathedral. Varian helps me out and we lead the way up the steps with Anduin following in his footsteps and Golthak in mine. Three paladins in gleaming armor meet us at the door, initiating a ritualistic challenge-and-answer that grants us entry. Two of the paladins step to either side of the door while the third leads us deeper into the sanctuary of the Light. They have been well-rehearsed by someone; none of them bat an eye at Golthak.

I stare straight ahead as we walk up the aisle, trying not to look at the assorted important personages crowded to either side and trying not to think of the last aisle I walked up: the cathedral in Theramore, where I legally bound myself to Varian for the rest of my days.

Just before the altar, Anduin slips off to one side while my faithful shadow moves to the other, symbolically guarding my husband and I as we kneel and are blessed and anointed by Archbishop Benedictus. Varian stands and takes the Archbishop’s place while he moves slightly to one side, and Anduin quietly moves to the other side of his father. The wording of the coronation oath took three days to hammer out; in three minutes thee words are uttered and my oath given. The Archbishop removes a bundle of cloth from the altar and unwraps it, offering the consort’s crown to his liege.

Varian takes the crown reverently in both hands and holds it above my head, which has been bowed in accordance with the agreed-on details of this ceremony. Now I lift my head to meet his eyes, and to my astonishment, my lord husband is fighting back tears. Slowly, gently, he places the crown on my head and offers me his hand.

“Rise, Queen Taretha, and stand at my side to rule wisely and well with me until the end of our days.” His voice is steady, ringing out to echo off the stones of the cathedral, but he swallows heavily as I stand and beneath the chorus of cheers, he whispers, “…just like Tiffin.”

Out of respect for the dead, I say nothing.

When the cheering has died down, he gestures Golthak forward and my faithful shadow kneels before us, armored but unarmed. His oath, too, has been pre-arranged and he easily swears to protect me with his life – which, of course, is an oath he made years ago, but this is being done for the benefit of those watching. As the final words are being said, the paladin who led us to the altar returns with Golthak’s axe, which is formally presented and accepted. Orc and paladin bow to each other, then move aside as Varian and I begin our slow, graceful exit with Anduin following. Golthak falls in behind me, and the paladin follows his king. The assorted nobles and dignitaries kneel as we pass, and when we emerge into the mid-day sun, the crowd outside cheers loud enough that a flock of birds takes wing elsewhere in the city.

Again, the king of Stormwind helps me into the carriage, this time smiling fit to break his face. He looks so happy that my mask slips just a little and my expression warms slightly. The Royal Guard move out at a trot, drowning out anything he might have dared try to say, and in strangely comfortable silence we are borne back to the castle.


	4. Wolf in the manger

Naturally, there is a ball. The nobility are present almost to a man, many of them not having secured an invitation to the previous night's event, as well as a good portion of the merely rich, or powerful, and many who simply hold rank within the government. The cold civility with which I greet each man or woman who jostles for the attention of king and queen is a counterpoint to my husband's warmth, my increasingly tight grip on his arm a trial he endures admirably as he declines dance requests for me. When I am introduced to the city's official architect, Baros Alexston, that grip loosens slightly in recognition of the stout man who appears dreadfully underdressed in simple tan. Beyond that, however, I recognize his name from the research I did with Anduin into the circumstances of my predecessor's untimely death. If Varian is surprised by the breach in my displeasure, he does not say anything beyond excusing himself for a few moments while I engage in conversation with someone I don't seem to loathe on sight. Alexston, for his part, is pleasantly surprised that I remember him - even if his brows draw together slightly when I mention where I recognized his name from. This is not an appropriate venue for discussing more of his past than just a brief mention, but he places himself at my service in the future and we chat for a handful of minutes about small, innocuous things while waiting for Varian to return. Before that happens, however, his expression shifts to apprehension and I feel my metaphoric hackles rise.

"Don't look now," he mutters through a fake smile, "but Lady Dalia seems intent on making your acquaintance while the king is being distracted. I'll fetch him for you, your Majesty."

Before I can assemble a response to that, he vanishes into the crowd just as the small space around me is suddenly invaded by an elaborate gown designed to attract attention to its wearer rather than flatter her with any semblance of grace or elegance, and I recognize it for the weapon that it is. 

"Your Majesty! Such an _honor_ to meet you." Lady Dalia simpers at me, but something cold and unpleasant lurks in her eyes. "Have you met my daughter Serephina? She's just come of age. I'd _hoped_ to present her to his Majesty...before we heard the _happy news_ , of course."

Serephina simpers at me from her confection of pink taffeta and elaborately-curled hair - artificially lightened - but she's nowhere as skilled as her mother. I can clearly see the sneer in her eyes. A quick glance around shows the nearest guests listening intently; Lady Dalia must be well-known for her prowess in political games. Too bad I don't play them.

I paste an equally false smile on my face. "The pleasure is _all mine_. Please, won't you join me on the balcony? It's so _crowded_ here, and I'd rather have some peace and quiet to talk to such an _esteemed_ lady as yourself and your _exquisite_ daughter."

Dalia's eyes harden slightly; she knows she's being deprived of her audience, but she also knows that she can't refuse. "Of course, your Majesty."

Two of the Royal Guard move to flank the balcony doors, and Golthak joins them. Everyone will know at a glance where I am, but no one will dare interrupt. Once the noise of the ball has been closed in by glass doors, I turn to Dalia with a charming smile.

"There, that's better. Now we can each speak our minds in privacy. Why don't you tell me how you _really_ feel?"

The simper turns into a sneer. "Didn't want an audience, _your Majesty_? Afraid others will hear what I have to say?"

"Of course not," I retort coolly. "I was afraid you would be too restrained in front of other ears. I pray you, unsheathe your claws, my lady. And you, Serephina, feel free to speak your mind as well. You have my word that I will not act against either of you in any way for anything said on this balcony."

"Why are you here?" Dalia wastes no time in lashing out. "You care nothing for King Varian, you're just taking advantage of his grief to set yourself in the lap of luxury. You're nothing but a gold-digger. A glorified strumpet. Except a strumpet is more honest than you; she at least pays for her luxury with her body. From what I hear, you don't give him so much as a kiss. You're a parasite. Do you service your pet orc on the side, _your Majesty_? Is that why he's here?"

This is more like it. "It's true, I don't like him." Serephina gasps. "And it's equally true that we do not share a bed. That was all agreed on in the marriage treaty. It seems you are poorly-informed, _my lady_. The service I provide in exchange for my position is of a different nature. And no, I do not share my bed with Golthak either."

We are interrupted by the balcony door opening, and my lord husband joining us. "What are you doing out here, my lady wife?" he asks casually, his smile easy and charming but his eyes serious. "Your presence is sorely missed inside. Is there a problem?"

"Return to your guests, my lord husband. This is none of your concern."

His smile flickers briefly at my chilly tone. "It's my concern if you're involved, Taretha."

"Go away, Varian." The look I give him is not hostile, but no less intense for that lack. "This is not your fight."

Varian locks gazes with me for a long moment. He wants to stay, wants to defend me. I can see that clearly. After a moment he nods grimly, conceding the battlefield to me, and resumes his charming smile before leaving us alone again.

"How can you be so cruel?" Serephina bursts out once the doors close, pouting. "He _loves_ you and you marry him even though you don't even _like_ him? You should have turned him down so that someone who actually _cares_ could have a chance to make him happy!"

"Someone like you, perhaps?" I raise one eyebrow as she flushes. "You accuse me of not caring, but look at yourself. You think frills and lace impress him? You look like a doll. A toy. A _child_. Do you even _know_ what he likes? How he feels? Do _you_ actually care about him, or are you just daydreaming about being courted by a king? Open your eyes, child. Real life isn't like nursery tales. The man you fantasize about loved Tiffin, and lost her, and loves her still. He told me so himself."

"But..." the girl protests, fighting to hold onto the shards of her dreams.

"What kind of nonsense did you fill her head with, Dalia?" I ask sharply. "Did you wean her on romantic fantasies of the handsome but bereaved king falling for her youthful beauty? Who will you marry her off to now? Someone old, someone fat, someone cruel? Will she even have a say in it?"

"Mamma?"

"Listen to me, Serephina," I hiss, "and listen well. I do not love Varian. I never pretended that I did. I have never presented myself to him as anything but what I am, and he chose to ask for my hand despite that. He is not impressed by simpers and curls, ruffles and pretty words. Do you honestly think other, prettier ladies haven't thrown themselves at him since Tiffin died? Stop living in a dream and think for yourself. Varian is a gentleman, but not all men of noble blood are. There _are_ noblemen who will beat you, or speak harshly to you for no reason, or take their pleasure from you with or without your consent - and don't think your lady mother wouldn't marry you off to one of them if it would increase her standing. It's true that I don't like my lord husband...but I respect him. I swore at our wedding to honor and defend him, and by the ancestors, _I will!"_

Serephina's elaborately made-up eyes tremble with tears. "Mamma? You wouldn't – wouldn't–"

"Take your daughter home, my lady," I tell Dalia coolly. "Say that she felt ill and you were concerned for her. Say that I was concerned for her; I will corroborate that story and you will not lose face for this."

Dalia grabs her daughter's hand roughly. "I'll give you this round," she hisses at me, "but don't think you've won. This isn't over, not by a long shot."

I don my most charming smile. "Oh, but my lady, I _have_ won. Here, let me get the door for you."

She glares daggers of pure hate at me as I hold the balcony door open, then assumes a mask of motherly concern. Serephina's face is screwed up horribly as she tries to not cry, and I follow them back into the crowd. I even escort them to the grand doors, using Golthak and the Royal Guard to clear a path. When they have left the ballroom, I turn around to find myself face to face with my unsmiling husband.

"What was that all about, Taretha?" he asks, too low to be overheard. "Lady Dalia's a backbiting snake that I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw Golthak. Your fight or not, I want to know what happened. If you can't tell me here, at least tell me later."

"Would you believe I was defending your honor?" I fight back a smile at his surprise. "I was just correcting a few misconceptions."

"Such as?"

"The idea that I am somehow taking advantage of your grief for my own benefit. The fantasy that you are unaware of the fact that I don't love you."

He grins slightly at that. "I can hardly miss that one, my lady. Still, you at least respect me enough to speak the truth to me, and while I would _like_ your love, your honesty is more valuable."

Varian sweeps me a gracious bow before escorting me back into the crowd, and I can't help but feel that despite what I told Dalia, I _didn't_ win this round.

He did.


End file.
